A Perfect Spy

“Plans?” Miss Dubber echoed, smiling rather beautifully in her mystification. “I don’t make plans at my age, Mr. Canterbury. I let God make them. He’s better at them than I am, isn’t he, Toby? More reliable.”

“What about that cruise you’re always talking about? It’s time you gave yourself a treat, Miss D.”

“Don’t be daft. That was years ago. I’ve lost the urge.”

“I’ll still pay.”

“I know you will, bless you.”

“I’ll do the phoning if you want. We’ll go to the travel agent together. I looked one out for you as a matter of fact. There’s the Orient Explorer leaves Southampton just a week away. They’ve got a cancellation. I asked.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me, Mr. Canterbury?”

Pym took a moment to laugh. “God and me together couldn’t dislodge you, Miss D,” he said.

From the hall Miss Dubber watched him up the narrow stairs, admiring the youthful springiness of his tread despite the heavy briefcase. He’s going to a high-level conference. A weighty one too. She listened to him step lightly along the corridor to room 8 overlooking the square, which was her longest let ever, in her whole long life. His loss has not affected him, she decided in relief as she heard him unlock the door and close it softly behind him. Just some old colleague from the Ministry, no one close. She wanted nothing to disturb him. He was to remain the same perfect gentleman who had appeared on her doorstep years ago, looking for what he had called a sanctuary without a telephone even though she had a perfectly good one in the kitchen. And had paid her in advance six-monthly ever since, cash-cash, no receipts. And had built the little stone wall beside the garden path for her, all in an afternoon to surprise her on her birthday, bullied the mason and the bricklayer. And had put the slates back on the roof with his own hands after the storm in March. And had sent her flowers and fruit and chocolates and souvenirs from amazing foreign places without properly explaining what he did there. And had helped her with the breakfasts when she had too many casuals, and listened to her about her nephew who had all the schemes for making money that never came to anything: the latest was starting up a bingo hall in Exeter but first he needed the capital for his overdraft. And received no mail or visitors and played no instrument except the wireless in foreign, and never used the telephone except for local tradesmen. And never told her anything about himself except that he lived in London and worked in Whitehall but travelled a lot, and that his name was Canterbury like the city. Children, wives, parents, sweethearts — not a soul on earth had he ever called his own, except his one Miss D.

“He could have a knighthood by now for all we know,” she told Toby aloud as she held the shawl to her nose and inhaled its woolly smell. “He could be Prime Minister and we’d only ever hear it from the television.”

Very faintly Miss Dubber heard above the rattle of the wind the sound of singing. A man’s voice, tuneless but agreeable. First she thought it was “Greensleeves” from the garden, then she thought it was “Jerusalem” from the square, and she was halfway to the window to yell out. Only then did she realise it was Mr. Canterbury from upstairs, and this amazed her so much that when she opened her door to rebuke him, she paused instead to listen. The singing stopped of its own accord. Miss Dubber smiled. Now he’s listening to me, she thought. That’s my Mr. Canterbury all over.

* * *